


Soliloquy

by okaywhateverokayyes



Category: Animal Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Dialogue, Deran's POV, Humor, Internal Dialogue, Multi, Season 1 Spoilers, Season 2 spoilers, Slight Canon Divergence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaywhateverokayyes/pseuds/okaywhateverokayyes
Summary: This will follow Deran's journey throughout season 2; by using the dialogue and plot otherwise already provided, I will provide a stream of consciousness to this character that I have oh-so-been-fascinated by.Currently aired: 2.01





	Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome-
> 
> Season 2 aired on May 30th, 2017. The first episode was refreshing and reminiscent of all the wonderful things about this show that has got me so invested in it. I decided a couple of weeks ago, there's something about Deran Cody that is so fascinating and enthralling and FOR THAT VERY REASON, I will be writing in his POV, using the dialogue provided in each episode, and just incorporate Deran's thoughts and feelings in depth.
> 
> SEASON 2, EPISODE 1: Eat What You Kill

Ninety grand.

Between the five of them- _ six _ of them, eight considering that Smurf has never really considered  _ equal _ split, they should have each gotten around eleven grand. Which falls short of the 16 he needed but it that was better than not having the sixteen grand at all.

His shoulder aches as he extends his hand out, only to recoil as a hiss escapes his lips. He wraps his arm around his neck and presses his fingers into his shoulder, kneads them into the fabric as he rakes his hand in a circular motion to dull the throbbing.

_ Fucking Craig. _ Always has his head shoved into either a bottle or a trail of coke. Asking him to motor an ATV must have been too much to ask for. It’s sturdy and resilient, robust and sound in terms of resolution and alacrity but if the person driving was incapable of having the baseline motor skills, all of it was futile.

Deran looks up at Craig, grimaces as his hair falls over his face, making it harder for him to discern whatever look he had on his face. His own hair had somehow slowly morphed into Craig’s which bothered him considering everyone considered him to be no different from Craig. Looks, or otherwise.

Consciously, Deran tugs a strand of hair behind his ear.

_ Haircut _ , he decides. That’s what he needs. One less thing to make him seem less like Craig and more like himself.

The last thing he needed was for everyone else to assume that he was somehow an extension of the family’s practically unquestioned irresponsible fuck. Which would do nothing but shit him over considering what he had plans to do.

Deran makes a move to grab the flask from the safe burglary, noticing the flakes of embers escaping the drill and falling to the ground. The smell of combustion and flame is marred by the melting of the lock on the safe.

He takes a quick notice of the safe. There’s no master luck which saves them time. It’s an all steel and there are no traces of plastic. It’s sturdy and extremely heavy with no safeguard wheels. Not their first rodeo that they couldn’t maneuver these two but it’s always an hassle when people take the extra mile to buy something this stout. Which only meant  _ one _ thing hopefully.

He glances at the rear, notices that there are no scathes so it’s not bolted, which for all intensive purposes, sped things up. There might have been lag screws used to bolt the safe down but the light and grainy scratching indicates that wooden screws might have been the alternative. Cement bolts would have been a bitch to discharge, as those would certainly be bolted sturdily into the pavement.

From the corner of his eyes, he watches as Craig breaks out into a swine-doddering  smile.

“ _ What _ ?” Deran asks plainly, “What about this is so funny to you? Huh?” He balks as Craig etches his lips further upwards, another chuckle emanating out.

“Bro, Remember when you and Pope ducktaped a shopping cart when we were kids with the uh-“ Craig ponders for not even a millisecond before he continues, as if taking into consideration what he was going to say was out of his vernacular and out of question, “roman candles on the side  and sent it down quarry hill?”

Baz’s voice is distant and void of any amusement as he replies with, “Yeah. I do.”

Deran watches as Baz slips his hands into his jean pockets’, sliding against the wall and levying his leg up one against the cement, lurching slightly forward to accentuate his verbal response.

Typical Baz. Seem interested by feigning motion even when his words are void of everything but disinterest. It’s always as if he’s focusing on what’s behind those safeguards. How much will he be taking a split of-always thinking pragmatically-which was respectable but also Deran has to wonder whether any of it is just a façade. Whether Baz knows nothing but comes off as if he’s got his life together and acting like tough shit when he’s just as fucked up as the rest of them were.

He doesn’t talk about what he does with the cash- _ none _ of them do. None of them need to. But Deran isn’t blind to any of it. It’s a decent sized place that Cat and him had taken up. He takes care of the rent, which is minimal compared to his share of every heist. Maybe he’s investing-maybe he’s  _ not _ . Maybe he’s using it to go down to Mexico when his erectile dysfunction becomes too much for him to find no solace in Cat and needs new hands to blow him off.

_ New. _

Deran snorts quietly.

What he had meant by that is  _ Same old, same old _ . It’s just that he’s not getting it from Cats’. Which meant that Baz is full of complete shit.

Everytime Baz gets on 15 south, he’s running away from something.

Deran throws on a smile, his teeth swiping against each other as the very effort to put on this expression aches the muscle fibers in his face. He does it to hide his ridiculous unnerving thoughts, knows that the smile works because unlike Baz, he’s had to put on front longer than anyone of them had.

It’s effortless now.

It still makes him feel discomfited, but if it’s not displayed on his face, he continues to glare as the drill penetrates into the safe lock.

The acidic taste that swarms his throat hordes his intent as he withdraws the flask away from his mouth.

“Yeah, I still have a scar on my ass when I bounced out of that,” Craig throws his hands mid-air, eyes wide as he tilts his head to face Baz.

“Yeah, you got it easy man,” Deran intercepts, “I went over the cliff in on that thing,” the smile falls of his face as the impact is too reminscient of him feigning any other response, “Hit the lake like cement.” He takes another swing of the vodka, the burning percolates inside his throat and somehow assuages the image of him hitting the water, stomach first, the whiplash that resulted in a broken rib.

Pope steps away, settling the drill against the floor as he grips on the lock. He tilts the knob over to the left, a soft click indicating that it would open. All of them take a step closer, a decent distance away as the door swerves open.

Baz is soon off of the wall, perking downwards, tilting his head only for a frown to wash over his face. His acuity for details alerts Deran as he drops the flask to his side, a smoldering warmth of heat washes over him as he watches Pope crouch.

Pope fists the sizeable stash of cash into his gloves before slamming it on the top of the safe.

The sound of the loose and minimal bills dies down, but the height of the wrapped ten dollar bills, strikes Deran’s nerves. He shuts his eyes close, breathing in the embers and grainy smoke, letting the smell travel down and clamping his mouth shut when it reaches his throat.

_ Fuck _ .

“That’s it?” Baz questions, “Oh you got to be shitting me”. Baz swipes his hand across the back of his head as he rests his back against the wall. Deran’s feet are glued to the floor as he watches Pope crouch lower to the ground, kneading his hands around his forehead in frustration.

He pulls at his skin as he intertwines his fingers together, his flesh forming into a blistering red despite the sun overshadowed by the paved ceiling.

_ Fuck _ .

Sixteen grand. Eleven Grand. By the looks of it, he’d get enough to buy dinner for the next two weeks, and then some. Deran grips onto the flask a little bit tighter, until the soles of palms turn a ghostly white. His blood curdles as he’s reminded of what it all meant. That somehow he’s gonna have to explain this after the last time, how he promised that this would be the last time he asked for  _ more time _ . That being short five grand was better than being short 16 grand. That now, he’s unsure of whether this opportunity would slip from his hands because they’ve all been fucked over by misinformation. That time he had asked for would mean nothing and she would have that look in her eyes that they all eventually had when they looked at him.

Pity.

Disappointment.

The usual.

He doesn’t consider anything as he swivels around on his heel and slams the flask against the pavement.

-/-

Deran wonders whether it’s possible to jab a fork in his forehead until the throbbing subsisdes. There’s a cut on his right cheek that swells up by the time they make it back to Smurf’s. He doesn’t even recognize that it’s there unless he goes to swipe his hand across his face-which ends up being every other second as he has to hear Craig’s incessant gripes the ride back. They aren’t complete sentences, or even complete thoughts. It’s a grunt here, a growl there-a word or two, three if he’s lucky.

It becomes frustrating. Having to sit beside him and being forced to figure out what exactly he’s trying to say. Which is not necessarily the hard part.

“Fucking  _ Shit _ .”

“Dude,  _ no _ .”

“A grand?!?!”

“Probably less.”

“FUCK!”

“Rollers-stupid moth-“

“It’s three weeks-“

“ _ Fucking shit!” _

The frustrating part is trying to match his discontent. Deran could vocalize it but then what? Would he have to let him in on the fact that he’s not irked by the fact that there’s not even a modicum of money to get out of this but that his plans-his future-was invested into this one sting.

That he needed that money to solidify a deal that he’s been stringing along for months. In his head, it’s been years. To get things going on motion, after years and for it to just fall short because of misinformation.

Yeah, he couldn’t think of a larger  _ fuck you _ .

He follows Pope through the open door, taking quick strides towards the fridge. He tugs on the hatch and grasps onto a bottle of malt. He’s quick as he flisks the cap open, quaffing down the viscous drink. He swipes his hand across his mouth as he pulls away the bottle, swallowing the harsh taste as it fills his nasal opening.

Deran faces his back against them all as he runs his hand across the counter top, tapping his fingers in verbatim as he takes another sip. It’s almost cynical if it weren’t for the fact that this shit happens to him. It’s almost comical if it weren’t for the fact that a part of him depended on this. And he wanted to be depended on. He also wanted to not have depend anyone else. This was supposed to be his casa blanca escapade moment. His a few good men glory instant. Where he actually has something to get to and that money was all he needed to get away from  _ this _ . From  _ them _ . From  _ her _ .

He recoils when the sting resumes back in his face, as if it jolts him back to reality. As if everything he had planned was some illusory fantasy that he could grapple maybe when the fat lady sings. Or when pigs fly.

Deran tugs the hatch open for a cold packed corn bag, crushing the packet as he pressed it against his cheek.

The harsh coldness prickles his skin and whatever he had pushed aside to feel from the cut, it’s quick as it unnerves him. He lets out a languid sigh as he shuts his eyes close, stopping his fingers mid-tap. The frosty bite settles against the sting, evening out the internal tingle.

He turns to follow them, settles on the couch farthest away and presses into the cushion. He settles his leg in front of him as he flexes his one hand to his side. There’s a ray of sun that shines through the transparent window, that combats the frosty sting. It’s unsettling until it isn’t. Like if a needle had pricked him and he doesn’t realize it until a second later. It’s quick and it’s quiet.

Craig rests beside his wailing foot and Deran has the urge to kick him mid-kneel. It’s a pressing urge that he has to suppress as he settles his leg onto the wooden floor, digging his toes into the soles of the shoe. He wonders whether he could even bear stifling a groan or his irritation when Craig’s even closer than he would hope for.

He hopes Craig would maybe lean against the wall, hovering over anyone in his vicinity like the crass dupe he was.

Deran presses the bag against his cheek, raising one leg to rest on the cushion.

“-Thanks to J,” Smurf adds, turning to face him. Deran rests a watchful eye on the others, doesn’t need a blaring reminder hovering over their heads to remind him the taut line they were all crossing. Tonally, Smurf’s trying to play her cards; sometimes, her strategic ploys are reminiscent of a crafty poker player.

One, know the value of your hand. It’s the way Smurf asserts herself. A dash of assertiveness with a pinch of guilt-ridden tactics. Displace the blame as long as it doesn’t reroute to her. Yet, she’s not always keen on doing such a thing when the rest of them aren’t as receptive to it. Sometimes, Deran thinks she can sense their lack of patience from their mere presence in the room. Sure, maybe it’s because they’re all wearing worn out frowns but Deran likes to think, it’s because  _ two _ , play only strong hands.

If she can’t uplift them when they’re down, can’t coddle them when they’ve hit the ground, what’s there for her to find solace in? It’s like she knows that she can’t tear them down to the point where none of them want to return to her for some perverse sense of comfort. Sure, she’ll find a way to destroy their compass and  mental capacities but she never does it in a way that would let them despise her comfort.

It’s so practical and manipulative, Deran pushes the thought away. Every single time, she’s able to get  _ away _ with it. Every. Single. Time. Like she changes her form a tad bit and all of them are blind to it.

“ _ We’re _ fine too,” Pope adds, his grimace imprinted sternly on his face.

Deran tilts his head back, “You said this thing was solid,” it’s void of any disdain, “Said it was north of  _ ninety grand _ ,” Even then, he can’t hide his frustration at how much they’ve missed out on.

Deran avoids her blithering glare as he jabbed his fingers into the hard-pressed cold pack.

“It was supposed to be.”

Craig is swift as he leans forward, “Then what the hell happened?” A question so simple, Deran snorts quietly under his breath.

_ They’re fucked _ , is what happened.

An unsettling silence settled over them, Smurf’s wavering glare suffocates the room from any breathable air because-

Three: Be Prepared to fold.

Which Smurf is unsurprisingly stubborn to do so. It’s like she doesn’t understand that concept, any poker expert would strive to make a habit of using, when  _ needed _ . She folds in quarters and expects them all to put them the fourths to make a one. It’s never one instance where she gives in completely-they have to wait for it, like crumbles of bread left for them to pick up.

“Let’s go eat that pie,” Smurf insists. It’s a line so familiar, it falls to deaf ears.

Deran shifts around, huffing under his breath as he notices the rest of them stuck to their spots.

Well-

_ Shit _ .

“We risk our lives for five hundred dollars, all she could talk about is  _ pie _ ,” Pope snarks-

To which Deran rubs at his eye as he reminds them, “It’s not even five-hundred dollars-that would have been a fair split.”

Smurf whips her head in his direction, arms clutched to her side, her chest heaving in what he presumes to be her moment to-

Four and Five: Know the first odds before the flop.

She senses it, like a possum in a window well-

Probably thinks they’re all ganging up on her, which for all intensive purposes, is not a uncommon thing to do. Considering that they’ve done it before  _ yet _ , it’s the way she struggles to hide her tactics, a scorn so obvious washed over her face, Deran wonders whether Smurf’s getting too old to hide her emotions.

Or too,  _ bored _ .

Deran wryly smiles, because _fuck, wouldn’t that be the day?_ _Jeanine Cody is bored. Smurf doesn’t put up a front because she’s unable to_.

He’s absorbed in the thought that he catches Smurf mid-sentence-

“What about the job that raised  _ you _ all of your lives,” Smurf turns deftly around the room, “You’re still living off of Pendleton, every one of you!”

“That was Baz, not you!” Craig interrupts.

“Why don’t you have another drink, Smurf?” Pope suggests, “I wonder how many cocktails she’s had when she had the brilliant idea for us to hit a brewery.”

Smurf settles, legs wide open, in a stance so inviting of a fight, Deran rolls his eyes pointedly.

Six: Never chase Open and Low-End straights.

“Maybe this was your fault,” she grabs the glass as she jabs in Pope’s direction, “Did you ever think of that?  _ Huh? _ ”

Deran raises his brow.

Seven: Never play when your budget is getting low. It’s a ploy so important, Deran wonders why she’s doing the opposite of that.  _ None _ of them were quick to be on her side. They’re all silent as she makes a remark, but there’s no apologetic scorn on Baz’s face, an uncertain shoulder shuffle that Craig continuously displays-

It’s as if she  _ was _ a possum in a window well.

She points out about the northeast entrance, asks them if it’s the correct safe-

Deran has to catch his breath-

Because  _ shit _ , she’s running out of plays.

He doesn’t know what overcomes him, but he slides up as he repeats words that he’s had said before: “So sick of this shit, this is what she does. She’s trying to pin us against each other cause if she knows that if we stick together,” he jabs in her direction-

“WHAT!” Smurf invites, “What? Tell me what?  _ Oh, come on _ baby boy, I’m all ears,” she walks up to him and has her flattened palms to either side of her face as she bends towards him, “I’m  _ listening _ .”

Deran doesn’t flinch.

“Guys, let’s cool it out-“ Deran recognizes the usual  _ soft-sliding  _ tone in Baz’s voice, “Let’s cool it out!” It’s when Baz’s about to give in-

Deran slaps his hand on his thigh-

_ Well, there’s to assuming otherwise _ .

“Yeah I’ll forget it! Because I have to go pick  _ your _ kid up from school, unless that was something you were planning to do.” And it’s the way a blithering  _ shit _ that washes over Baz’s face that reminds Deran that Smurf, Smurf knew how to play her eighth.

Eight: Play with cards, not with ego.

-/-

Deran grabs the balcony door hatch, slides it open as he steps out. The prickles of harsh cold that clamps around the internal heat that rises in his cheeks, is such a confusing play of two completely opposite temperatures, he bites down on his tongue.

It distracts him momentarily until he remembers how fucked they are.

“Why?” Deran asks, “Why are we still letting her run shit? Hm?” It’s words he knows to bite down on but he can’t stop them as they escape his lips, “We just kick her to the curb,” words so familiar and so overused, he wants to swallow them down, “ _ man _ , we’re not twelve anymore!”

He knows it’s words they’ve all heard-he’s said them one too many times. If someone had recorded him the first time he’s said them years ago, they could play it back to him and it would be, somewhat word for word, the same.

“Give it a rest,” Baz sighs, “man please,” he laughs exasperatedly.

Deran knows. He  _ fucking knows _ what that meant.

How those words would be thrown back in his face-

It’s the way Baz chortles, like he’s ready to call him out on his shit and  _ fuck _ , that’s the last thing Deran needed to hear. Or the only thing he  _ didn’t _ want to hear.

“Alright,” he’s defensive as he retorts, hopes Baz would just let it go, “thanks for being such pussies, then,” and he knows he’s instigating it.

“What?” Baz is quick as he snarks, “because we didn’t make empty threats?”

And there it is.

Being called out on is like is akin to getting sucker-punched. It’s a pain so quiet and so slow, that once it hits you, it feels like your being shoved into hundreds of knives and shot at, simultaneously. It’s when he feels a tight ache in his chest, does Deran make an effort to exhale.

“They’re not empty threats!” which he’s not entirely sure of, considering how many times he’s come back.

_ Drop it, Baz. _

_ For fuck’s sake, please _ .

“How are they not empty? Man you get pissed off and you disappear for a few weeks  and then you come  _ crawling back _ . When you’re ready to walk, you let us know. Until then-“ Baz is stern as he continues, “please,  _ shut up  _ about it.”

He feels all their stares penetrating into the center of his forehead. On top of the twinge in his chest, it adds onto the discomfort.

Deran focuses on his breathing, makes sure it’s consistent and he doesn’t let them see that he’s maybe a word or two away from maybe losing his mind. It’s the only thing that helps him from screaming. He looks away as Pope adds in his two cents, his voice so low and gruff, it falls to Deran’s deaf ears. It’s not necessarily that he can’t  _ hear  _ him, it’s that it’s so dronish that it meshes into the sound of the engine running in the garage.

Deran wanders his eyes at the clock hung up just above the counter.

6:11.

He’s got jack shit and he flickers his eyes towards where his truck would be beyond the crusty walls, knows that that 34 grand is as good as it can get. He knows that stupid senseless twang of useless hope that he had earlier this morning, was shot to shit in a matter of seconds.

_ This can’t be gone. _

_ He can’t lose this shit _ .

“Come on, let’s go surf, man.”

Deran rests his hands on his hips, bites at the corner of his lip before he looks up.

“Alright, I’ll meet you over there.”

-/-

It’s looking at him.

Beady eyes and pickled nipples, all of it was somehow glaring into his mind. There’s a naked mermaid hanging off of the bar counter, hung by a rod that disappears into the ceiling. It’s placed in an almost happenstance manner, ready for what’s to come even though it’s as inactive as the next solid object.

And yet-

It’s  _ looking _ at him.

Sure, he’s looking at it yet as he takes another sip of the malty beer, he’s  _ sure _ that it’s looking right back.

He can’t explain it, nor does he want to because what the  _ actual fuck would anyone else think _ .

The empty stool next to him is soon filled. He doesn’t have to turn to look as he notices the familiar plaid shirt and rigid hands that are placed out on the counter in front of them.

The stash of cash bundled in his jacket pocket starts to weigh on him,  _ a weight that’s negative sixteen grand. _

Deran turns anyway, slides his hand behind his jacket before he’s pulling out the stack.

He fucking wants to jab his head into the nearest wall but he grips onto the cash and settles it quietly before her.

“It’s thirty four grand.”

She makes a wistful grimace as she huffs.

It’s a look so many people have worn when talking to him, Deran wonders when it would hurt any less. Or, start to feel like anything more than a ghostly stab.

“Look, I just need more time,” more overused words escape his lips.

“Time?” And she’s not privy to call him out either, “Well  _ shit _ , that’s a new one.”

“Please,” he pleads, “I thought I was going to get more money today but I-“ and as she turns her head swiftly to stare at him, he gets that same look, “I’ll have the rest for you soon, okay?” He is quick to get out, “I  _ promise _ .”

A word that has lost it’s meaning, he’s sure of it. So it doesn’t take much as he            says it. When there’s no need to worry that word entails, it easily falls off of his tongue.

“I want to help you kid, but it’s got to be the full fifty. Or else, there’s  _ nothing  _ I can do.”

Deran nods, kneads his fingers together as he stares at the glass wall. It’s only briefly before he watches her rise from the stool and disappear behind a corner.

Time.

_ Time _ .

They’re all running out of time.

And if his past was a indicative of anything, he’ll run back if he has nothing to keep him grounded. He glances around them, stares at the crusty walls, the wooden floor, the dark hues and rests his eyes on the shoddy license plates hanging on the wall.

This-

This would keep him grounded.

And if he’s being honest?

He’s tired of running.

He’s tired of being forced to run a marathon and then expected to fall short.

He’s tired of  _ wanting _ to run a marathon and heeding to everyone else’s expectations.

For once, he wants to fucking finish.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> P.S: Deran, you have a lot of shit to get together but I'm glad you're on the right track. You might get derailed but it's not about how you start, it's about how you end.


End file.
